


Intervention of an Unconventional Nature

by arnediadglanduath



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Crisis Core: Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fix-It of Sorts, I swear four chapters is the limit, I.e. we're not doing incest here, M/M, Probably a strange ship, The Author Regrets Nothing, Vincent!YouareNOTthefather
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-09
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-08-21 06:44:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16571624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arnediadglanduath/pseuds/arnediadglanduath
Summary: Vincent wakes up while Sephiroth is raiding Shinra Manor for information.He attempts to set the record straight without taking his clothes off.[He fails].





	1. Chapter 1

Vincent could smell hysteria. 

The wood around him was ancient...but he had been in this particular coffin for twenty or so years and it wasn’t like it had been new before that. They were mostly used for test subjects that needed a hasty disposal. Why putting them in boxes was necessary he didn’t know...it wasn’t like they had been shown any respect in life...what was the point of showing them any in death? The bones around him were old and moldering...abandoned by feverish minds and fanatic ideals in pursuit of ‘greater things.’ The slurry of mako...steel and chrome and towers so high you couldn’t see them past the cloud bank. He was comfortable here...with the remains of those who had moved on. It was peaceful in a way that was painful...a reminder of his crimes...of his wrongdoings. How long he had been there...he didn’t know. His internal clock was off...his thoughts muddled and hazy but hysteria had woken him.

Rather, hysteria had woken Chaos. 

Shoving his resident demon to the side for a moment, the dark-haired gunslinger stared at the slats above him and listened to the footsteps crossing the landing above. Their pace had been ever-increasing. Sometimes steady, sometimes erratic. He could smell fear...heartbreak...confusion. The inhumane part of him slavered for it, it had been so _long_ since he was free. He dismissed it as he always had because he had no time for it. This was his atonement. He had to repay the sins he’d dealt out...had to make good with his word...even if his word had meant nothing. And if he was covered in an inch of dust it didn’t matter...dust was the least of his worries. Dust was negligible...a factor of living and dying. Everything that existed returned to it eventually. Nothing was permanent. Happiness...love...they were dismissable because they weren’t eternal. He had to atone.

...He had to atone for her. 

Grief nearly overwhelmed him for a moment...but he pushed it down. Not because he wasn’t grieving, but because he didn’t have a _right_ to grieve. He’d forgone that right when he had failed in his objectives...when he had chosen to back down instead of doing the right thing. And maybe it was wrong of him to blame himself, but he did. When he joined the Turks he’d made a vow to protect those lesser than him, to not be swayed by greater powers or emotionalism. In the end...emotionalism had won, subservience had won. He wasn’t sure what was worse. The fact that he’d walked away from a mother and her unborn child because she told him to, or the fact that he had opened his mouth in front of Hojo in the first place. He could have stolen her away despite her wishes, could have taken her somewhere safe and let her do what she wished when the child was born. But it wasn’t his child, and he was no jailer. His infatuation had little to do with the outcome, but he still felt responsible. 

….And Lucrecia loved Hojo more than she had ever loved him.

A crash from the upper floor and his eyes flew open...onyx ringed with crimson...irises as red as blood. His gauntlet clinked as his fingers shifted...as restlessness and curiosity began to overtake him. A part of him screamed that curiosity was dangerous, that it wouldn’t do him any good, just as it had never done him any good before. But the sense of hysteria...of unraveling was stronger than it had been, and despite the fact that Chaos enjoyed it, the humanitarian in him whispered he ought to do something….ought to help. Another facet of his psyche hated that part of him because it always got him into trouble or gave him an insurmountable amount of grief. People came through the manor occasionally; the monthly perimeter sweep, the regular inspection. All hasty, thorough processes that never led anyone near to him and he was grateful for it. He didn’t have to talk to anyone...didn’t have to answer questions and didn’t have to rationalize his own rationale to individuals who would never understand.

...No one had ever stayed this long before.

Blinking, Vincent frowned at the wood above them and willed them away. A few more minutes and a subsequent crash told him that his wishes were for naught. And whoever it was was slowly mentally degrading with whatever they were uncovering. It wasn’t exactly a secret the Shinra hadn’t kept thorough records...not in the right places and not filed in any correct order anyway. Anyone looking for information would find a jumbled mess of data that didn’t make any sense or that pointed them in the wrong direction. He was-painfully-aware what misinformation could cost someone, and there was some _very_ sensitive information in the Archives. When he wasn’t looking after Lucrecia he was tasked with guarding it and he’d read the majority of it during his night shifts; when nobody was around and nobody particularly cared what he was doing. Those were different days; when secrets weren’t deadly….when Shinra was upfront about what they were doing because they hadn’t delved deep enough yet. 

He enjoyed his training with the Turks in a kind of nostalgic way. It was a tough environment but it was fair, and the instruction he’d received had given him a wealth of knowledge he wouldn’t have been able to garner anywhere else. Vincent had never been sociable, but he’d made a few friends and they’d stuck together until their training was over. Grimoire was reluctant about his career choice because it was more dangerous than being an academic but he’d never had an extensive patience for books. He was far from stupid but he liked things simple and clean. At the thought, the gunslinger snorted. As if anything affiliated with Shinra was _clean_ ; but at least he’d known what to expect every day, known where he was going and what he was expected to do when he got there. He excelled in firearms and hand-to-hand to the point that his instructor informed him that he had nothing left to teach him, and then he was shipped out. Here and there, this and that; surveillance missions, intelligence projects, sometimes diplomatic missions but Shinra was more about brute force than diplomacy even then. They assigned him to Lucrecia and he didn’t think anything of it for the first few months until he caught himself paying more attention to her than he should.

Grimoire didn’t live long enough to see him graduate.

It bothered him when he thought about it. Because despite his disapproval, his father had always encouraged him in his endeavors, had always written to him when he had the time. His death hit him harder than he’d have liked it to, and the circumstances of it had always bothered him. They were vague...underemphasized and hazy, he resented being left in the dark on the topic of something so personal. But when he’d seen the file on Lucrecia’s computer he hadn’t been angry with her, hadn’t blamed her. She’d been young...she couldn’t have done anything and her hysteria in terms of it confused him, frustrated him. He _was_ angry when she turned to Hojo for comfort; when she married the most cold-hearted person on the planet because she couldn’t face him and she couldn’t face herself. And Vincent had never considered her a coward before then, but standing guard at the reception, looking at the tight smile on her face and the catlike smugness on Hojo’s visage...he thought her terribly weak. Granted, there was something going on with them before that, but the revelation of his father’s death seemed to have solidified it and he resented that. 

...He resented that quite a bit.

Truthfully, he didn’t know if he’d loved Lucrecia or if he’d idolized her; if he’d put her on a pedestal because everyone else surrounding them was feelingless and unobjective. Lucrecia had that ounce of humanity that no one else in the building save for Gast seemed to have, and Gast was enamored of Ilfana. He didn’t know anything about Cetras, about Ancients or Jenova or whatever everyone whispered about but when it was announced that Lucrecia’s unborn child would be a subject to such tests he couldn’t stand by. Because that child had never asked for something like that...had never done anything to deserve to be a subject of human experimentation but they were subjecting him to it anyway. And Hojo had laughed in his face, had told them that _’they knew what they were doing’_ because _’they were scientists.’_ But when did the terminology of _’scientist’_ morph into that of the fanatic? When was enough enough? That question ate at him, it ate at him until he couldn’t stay silent anymore and it had cost him his life...his freedom. Hojo had tried to murder him and then experimented on his body.

...And then he’d woken up a monster.

Vincent gritted his teeth and tried to close his eyes to no avail. He didn’t hate Chaos, not really. Chaos was a WEAPON designed by the planet and his instincts were fully focused on his purpose. Nothing about him was particularly sentient, he didn’t understand right and wrong...good and bad. If there was anyone who was innocent in all of this...it was Chaos. And while he held no great affection for him, despised the fact that they shared the same soul, he didn’t despise _him_. No more than he could despise a wolf for having the desire to hunt for prey, no more than he could despise a bear for slaughtering a threat. Nothing was understood on a social level, and Chaos was the only one of his kind...there was no process of evolution...no acknowledgment of anything outside of what he was designed for. He didn’t feel _sorry_ for him but he couldn’t fault him his existence. Doing so would be counterproductive, would only put the both of them in a symbiotic agony and he was in too much agony as it was.

There was a pained...tortured noise from above and he couldn’t remain idle anymore.

It took him a while to remember how to move his muscles, how to throw off that pall of partial-immobility in order to press forward. Toes, fingers, extremities, torso and so on...all operating in harmony until he could push the lid to the coffin up and away. He cringed as it clattered to the floor but the activities above didn’t cease...didn’t stop. Whoever it was was too wrapped up in whatever they were doing to really notice anything else. It was strange to stand after such a long time...strange to acknowledge that he still had a physical presence. Vincent remained in that darkness for a moment; stood motionless in the dim light of the basement as he observed his miniscule place in the universe before taking a step forward. The hiss of leather, the chink of vambraces, the bunch of muscle and the essence of physicality...he relearned it as he walked...as he made it to the stairs and paused to look upwards at a ventilation shaft. The Turk in him insisted that he take care, that he didn’t reveal himself too soon because he didn’t know what he was walking into. 

The shafts would have to work. 

It had been a long time since he’d done anything stealthy and it took him a while to get the hang of it. The cubical shape of the shafts were hollow and didn’t work much in his favor but he did what he was able and he miraculously succeeded. Upwards...up a set of maintenance rungs to the next floor and over the labs. He didn’t linger...didn't want to stir up the memories because if he did he’d be stuck there for who knew how long and it was counterproductive. Storage was empty save for a duffel bag as far as he could see from the vents...so was the Intelligence sector and the Guardroom. It was hard to remain objective in the face of so many recollections. Hojo liked to sit in the Lounge and talk to whoever would listen to him about how he was so much smarter than everyone else and Gast preferred the Viewing room. Lucrecia was usually in Residential, especially in later days, but that wasn’t his focus. By the time he made it to the library his thoughts were better-centered….more mission-oriented...if he really wanted to take it that far. 

The library was a mess.

If he could compare it to anything, it was rather like someone set a paper-bomb off inside it and left it to explode. Files were scattered here and there among thick research texts; tombs pulled off the shelves and ripped open. Leaflets here, snippets there, newspaper clippings elsewhere. Vincent surveyed the scene with a kind of quiet dispassion...and a little bit of _satisfaction_ because this would have driven Hojo to _hysteria_ and a childish part of him was feeling quite smug about it. Bookshelves leaned haphazardly to one side as if the individual perusing them didn’t know their own strength and had simply gathered whatever they could find and absorbed it without thought of the wooden infrastructure. Some research manuals were practically unrecognizable, pages dogeared and resolutely perused with a kind of fervor he didn’t think was humanly possible. Ration bars were scattered throughout, tin foil wrappers glinting between ivory pages like diamonds amid drifts of snow. 

And then Vincent’s eyes landed on him. 

Huddled in the only clear chair in the vicinity-Gast’s, he acknowledged-slender, pale hands gripping a large book with a kind of desperate focus. Leather...much like his garb of choice but more official, silver vambraces and crisscrossed buckles...high boots and a sword that might have been overcompensating for something if the individual wearing it didn’t exude a persona of immense power. Eyes the color of emeralds that seemed to glow faintly in the low light; luminescent far beyond what human pigment would allow...almost as if chemically enhanced. Slit-pupiled and entirely unearthly, like something otherworldly brought down and wrought into a single individual. Silver hair...feet of it...yards of it...like a waterfall tumbling over a muscled shoulder and down onto the owner’s lap. A strong jaw that came together in a chin below lips that were so cruel and so shapely they shouldn’t be allowed. These were beneath a refined nose with no imperfections or signs of breakage. Defined, thick brows that were a touch darker than the hair; framed by bangs the color of forbidden moonlight. 

It hurt to look at him.

Really, there was no feasible reason he should exist. Vincent told himself quite firmly that he was dreaming...that this was a bizarre trick of the mind. He would wake up in his coffin bereft of the presence of this strangely attractive _man_ ;...and he could go on with his atonement. When this lucid determination didn’t bring him to wakefulness he settled himself cross-legged before the gate to wait out his unconsciousness. While he did this, those pale fingers turned the pages of whatever they were reading faster and faster…’till they were a blur...and there was no way anyone could read that fast, but something in him insisted that he _was_. And he couldn’t imagine having that kind of mental prowess; the strain that would come with it...the anxiety. Some of it was evident on that immaculate visage now; the faintest hints of stress made themselves evident in the severe impassivity of otherwise perfect features...in the thin line that was crinkling that pale forehead...in the clear tension of his physicality. Whomever he was...he was clearly discontent...clearly unhappy with his lot and seeking answers Vincent didn’t know that he would find. 

The stranger finished the book.

Specifically, he finished the book and hurled it across the room where it fell just beneath the gunslinger’s grate. Vincent recognized it, it was a prototype volume for Project J, something barely formed and hardly definable. It was also the book that detailed Lucrecia’s child...the one she had named Sephiroth. Hojo had removed any indication of parentage to preserve his ‘specimen’s’ integrity long before he was born...had wiped any trace of lineage off the map to save himself the inconvenience of explanation. A part of him had always wondered what had become of the infant...what had been done with him. His life couldn’t have been easy...couldn’t have been happy in any way, shape, or form. Realistically, he had to have grown up in some sort of lab; had to have been shaped into whatever Shinra wanted him to be...whatever his ‘father’ had wanted him to be. The idea of it was painful because there was so much he could have done to prevent it...so many different actions he could have taken save for the one that had led him to where he was. There were times when he hated himself for being so weak...so subservient...for turning away because he thought there was nothing else he could do.

**_*General Sephiroth Sir*_ **

Vincent jumped as the comm went off. Nearly hit his head on the aluminum above him before he regained something of his sanity. He watched with incredulous crimson eyes as the individual in the chair stiffened before growling a curse and pulling a communicator out of his pocket. For several minutes...he could only stare...could only watch with a kind of wondering disbelief as _General Sephiroth_ spoke irritably into the comm in a deep, baritone voice that was nothing like his father’s and so much more like his mother’s. Not in the sense that it was feminine, but it the sense that it was velvety...smooth and uninflected and strong. The authority in his tone was clear; wrought from-he assumed-what could only be years of experience. And he could see the resemblance now; the bangs...the hair...the shape of his eyes...slightly upturned and just a little bit on the edge of what might have been cheerfulness if he had been so foolish to assume he’d ever seen _cheerfulness_ in his life at all. 

So this was Lucrecia’s son.

His first instinct was to flee. Because the memories that had woken with Sephiroth’s presence were painful. And he didn’t want to be a part of this but it was clear that the younger man was seeking answers...that he was seeking his own definition and whatever he found here would lead him in the wrong direction. Officially, Jenova held the maternal position in terms of records. This wasn’t true; she was only a component of him because of his cells, but the files were clear and cold and _dishonest._ Sephiroth rose and he startled somewhat because it was such a fluid movement...so uninhibited and predatory it made his blood freeze in his veins. And the expression in those eyes was close to unhinged...tinged with a dark agony that was rapidly descending into madness. He understood that...a little bit...the discovery of being so different; of understanding that everything you thought you were was a lie and there was nothing you could do about it. 

Something in him was screaming that he needed to fix this.

A sense of foreboding so insidious it frightened him was seeping into his veins; an impression of torture and fear and insanity that he couldn’t shake. Vincent wasn’t a coward but this was so different...so uncalled for and such a horrible decision he didn’t know what to do. He was one man and this was a mansion filled with atrocities...with death and destruction and hopelessness. He had acted once before and it had cost him so much he could barely stand the thought of looking into a mirror. By his reckoning, he had to be an old man...but he didn’t feel like one. Vincent dreaded the day he would look at himself and realize that nothing about him had changed; that Chaos had frozen him into something eternal and undefinable by human standards. Chronologically, he was in his fifties...biologically, he felt the same as he did when he first went into the ground. Physically, Sephiroth was a year older than he was; more than likely stronger if his genetic enhancements had proven fruitious...though he didn’t know how strong his own ‘transformation’ had made him either. Everything about this scenario was tipped against his favor because he was an unknown element in an environment that was clearly already volatile. 

“Jenova…”

The gunslinger forced himself to focus. Sephiroth had evidently finished whatever conversation he was having on his comm and had knelt to pick up an old photograph of specimen J. There was something strange about the way he looked at her...something hungry and lonely and somehow desperate. The paper shuffled in gloved fingers...so light and featherweight in the grasp of someone who was clearly so powerful. Against his will, Vincent felt a sneer curl over his lips...though it wasn’t for the individual before him. _This_ was what happened when you left so many people in the dark, _this_ was the culmination of secrecy and deception and lies. And the individuals who had created such a lie were free or dead and he was left here to watch it all crumble to pieces. He’d never hated Shinra with such a single-minded ferocity before...but now he did. 

“...My _mother_ ….” 

He’d had enough`.

There was an explosion of dust as he kicked the grate outwards and jumped after it, landing on the floor of the library in a hail of leather and a considerable amount of plaster. The low hum of something coming towards him to his left gave him pause and he caught the heft of that massive blade-acknowledged his increased reactional prowess simultaneously-with the flat of his hand and yanked it forward. Vincent found himself face to face with the most dangerous individual on the planet...who was currently looking wide-eyed and just a little impressed. Knocking the weapon away he crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow.

“Who are you?” Sephiroth deadpanned, his expression somewhat wary.

“Vincent Valentine” he stated flatly. 

When this garnered him no reaction, he continued.

“Jenova is not your mother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:** Kind of a lark. I'm not sure when chapter two will be up but thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

Vincent was thrown into a bookcase.

Specifically, he managed to disarm Sephiroth and this-so he assumed-made him angry enough to toss him into a bookcase. As the oak paneling cracked upon impact, he grudgingly acknowledged that he was _much_ hardier than he used to be. Pre-Chaos, a throw like that would have knocked him out and given him a concussion. As it was, he had a moment of severe whiplash before he was able to recover himself and roll out of the way of the next attack. And-really-he should have expected this. Sephiroth was a SOLDIER first and foremost. Secondly, he was a human experiment raised on violence and bloodshed with a side of mental instability. Thirdly, he’d just learned-through partial-falsity-that he had alien cells in his genetic makeup. Vincent had subsequently dropped through a ceiling grate and told him the information he’d received was somewhat incorrect. By proxy, he was admitting his knowledge-if not his involvement-in a scientific project that had brought the younger man to this moment. He’d then proceeded to disarm him-which was probably something very few people could do-and this likely placed him rather high on the General’s ‘potential threat’ list. 

So, it was somewhat justified. 

That didn’t mean he had to _like_ it, of course. As he caught a subverted jab and threw himself forward he irritatedly acknowledged that Shinra had never taught their men how to be remotely diplomatic in crisis situations. He wasn’t exactly sure if he’d walked into a crisis situation or if he’d _created_ a crisis situation but the details were moot and it was taking all of his focus to remain on even footing. Sephiroth was fast...extremely fast and extremely strong and he wasn’t fully cognizant of his physical limitations yet, which put him at a distinct disadvantage. He managed to redirect the fight enough that they were nowhere near the green-eyed FIRST’s weapon-which was probably good, he was fairly sure he’d be dead if he didn’t-and put all of his effort into keeping it that way. Privately, he thanked the stars that he’d managed to excel in hand-to-hand; because his opponent was equally skilled and significantly more paranoid. Though really, there was something strange about it, and that was what kept him from being completely brutal. It also kept him from succumbing to Chaos which was just as well. And a library was not an ideal place for two superhuman individuals to attempt to beat each other into submission but the walls were concrete. This was good because if they’d started their fight on the upper levels he was fairly sure they’d have brought the mansion down within the first five minutes.

“How do you know about me?” 

Locked in a grapple, it took Vincent a moment to realize that Sephiroth was trying to talk mid-brawl. This was irksome because Turks were taught to _never_ communicate during a physical confrontation. It took too much focus, and it brought about the risk of injury or revealing too much out of distraction. Though, really, it wasn’t like he had anything to hide. He wasn’t trying to interrogate the silver-haired man, nor was he trying to subdue him for capture. No, he was trying to _appeal_ to whatever was left of his opponent’s logic. Whatever he said wasn’t going to hurt him any more than it already had. Exasperatedly, he hooked a leg around the younger man’s which resulted in both of them tumbling into a shelf of financial records. The books in question hailed down around them and he took that moment of visual obscurity to regain his footing. This was good because he was forced to catch a punch that would have broken his hand in years’ previous. As it was, he’d bruise, but not enough that it was going to hurt in the morning. Sephiroth seemed to be becoming increasingly frustrated with his ability to keep them on an even playing field. In different circumstances, he would have used that to his advantage, but that wasn’t his goal. Ducking to avoid a kick, he opened his mouth.

“I was a Turk” he grunted, pivoting somewhat. “Assigned to guard Dr. Lucrecia Crescent.”

Paper launched itself ceiling-ward as they careened across the floor. Someone threw a chair-he couldn’t really say who-and it exploded against the far wall. Green eyes flicked to the blade shimmering just underneath the ventilation shaft and _no_ that was _counterproductive._ When the younger combatant executed a pivot-kick and tried to dive towards the aforementioned weapon he grabbed the offending ankle and flipped it up...slid down onto his knees and followed-through with the throw until the General was forced to subvert his attention to keep from falling head-first onto the concrete. When he regained himself, the green-eyed FIRST put a considerably larger amount of distance between them, his expression unreadable.

“And what business does a _Turk_ have going through classified records?” he deadpanned, driving forwards again.

“Wasn’t classified then” Vincent muttered, rolling with the punch that landed on his shoulder and wincing only slightly. Somewhat piqued, he knocked a table over to cover his retreat and took a kind of idle interest in watching it explode as his adversary pursued him. “Not much need for lies at the time.” 

Neither of them were particularly brilliant communicators. The crimson-eyed ex-Turk acknowledged this as they obliterated another bookcase. Sephiroth-he imagined-was likely trained in diplomacy and so was he, but this wasn’t exactly a diplomatic situation and neither of them were conversationally tactile. It took him a while to realize that the General was holding back...that they were only continuing this because the individual before him was curious but not curious enough to not keep him busy while he sucked answers from him. It was-he admitted grudgingly-a rather brilliant tactic. If his answers were unsatisfactory he would die or he’d get hurt enough that Chaos would emerge and then everyone within several square miles would die. He wasn’t sure if _Sephiroth_ would die but he’d have a hard time subduing the demon inside of him and that wasn’t appealing either. There was also the distinct possibility that Chaos would punch through a wall just to avoid a full confrontation. He wasn’t sure what was more ironic; the fact that he was willing to face almost-certain death to prevent something terrible from happening or the fact that his soul-bound WEAPON would not face almost-certain death in order to cause more death.

Every single one of Sephiroth's moves was calculated. 

It was apparent the younger man was a tactician to the end. Those green eyes were observant... careful but swift. He was clearly scrupulous, clearly a genius, and clearly strong...but he was also clearly _broken._ The reality of it hit him in a way that was a little painful. His true emotions were buried so deep it was like looking into a dark well...like gazing into an abyss so empty it screamed bereftness. The rage was meant to intimidate, manufactured because that was what had worked for him in the past but it was impossible to tell what he was really feeling. As a Turk, such an admission made him cold. He hadn't been able to see it before, had assumed verisimilitude because of the instability of the moment but he was _wrong_. Sephiroth was in control and he wasn't and the truth of it made him momentarily reel. Because no one should be so rigid, should be able to compartmentalize to such a degree. He couldn't imagine what degree of conditioning Hojo had put him through, but it was heinous enough to make him nauseous. The man before him could talk, could emulate emotion but he didn't know if he could _feel_ it. And the distress he'd felt earlier...he didn't know how much of it was actually what Sephiroth felt or if it was what he thought he was _supposed_ to feel. 

Vincent didn't know if he was dealing with a man or a machine.

The psychology for humanism was there, obviously, but it was flattened and tattered and clearly unstable. He didn't know if when he did reach it-if he managed to-if it would break Sephiroth or help him. Already, the amount of information the silver-haired SOLDIER had accumulated was damaging. The older man cursed himself for being too cowardly to come forward sooner...to offer his informational assistance before the issue had become so large. There was no way he could have known it would be Lucrecia's son that would be there...no way he could have foreseen it, but he wished desperately that his reticence hadn't been his crutch, _again._ And he couldn't let his guilt swallow him now but it was there...looming like a slow-working poison. 

“And how do I know that you're telling the truth?”

Sephiroth's voice was toneless... inflectionless and frigid. The next blow hit Vincent in his solar plexus and the pain made him react instinctively out of training...out of his ingrained determination to survive. His answering kick sent the younger man flying; over the large wooden desk in the center of the library and into a stack of crates filled with books. The crash that followed was deafening but the General didn't linger; launched himself upward and kept moving. Despairingly, the gunslinger acknowledged that he might have to cripple the younger man to get him to stop...if he even could...and he didn't _want_ to. He wanted to talk, wanted to sit down and discuss this like rational adults but Shinra had never trained their men in temperance...had never taught them restraint in the face of a threat. Kill or be killed. Eat or be eaten. Defeat or be defeated. It was a horrible perspective...a horrible way to exist. And maybe he'd have been able to rationalize with a SOLDIER raised in a normal setting...but Sephiroth hadn't. Sephiroth didn't know what _'normal’_ was. 

“You don't know” he replied heavily, avoiding a hand trap. “But my files are here. Hojo...he...to me…” 

Vincent trailed off...at a loss to his verbal angle. He couldn't reason with his opponent. Sephiroth had been taught to forgo reason because it was in Shinra's favor. Right now, he was possibly one of the greatest threats to the regime because he knew their secrets and their atrocities and he wasn’t a part of it. If the General managed to kill him it would be celebrated. With his demise came the demise of uncertainties. If he couldn’t speak up, he couldn’t talk to Veld...couldn’t reveal his fate to the Turks….couldn’t reveal what Shinra was capable of to the public. Sephiroth didn’t _know_ that, of course, and there was no way that he could convince him of such a fact with the little time that they had. It was obvious that the green-eyed FIRST was stationed here for some reason or another, that he’d come down to the library maybe seeking something innocuous before finding something unspeakable. The crimson-eyed gunslinger didn’t know if-or when-his men might come in to see what the noise was about. If they did, he was better off dead because the things Shirna would do with him would be unspeakable. 

He leaned backward to dodge another blow, started to formulate one in return when he was suddenly swinging at empty space.

It took Vincent a moment to regain his center of balance, to think through the adrenaline pumping through his veins to acknowledge that for whatever reason, the attacks had stopped. Like a silver and black blur, Sephiroth had sat down at the desk in the center of the room and was looking at him with glittering, feverish eyes. Somewhat unintelligently, the older man acknowledged that his admission to being unable to give him proof had somehow solidified the General’s opinion of him in a positive manner. Or maybe it was the fact that he’d nearly mentioned being torn apart by Hojo...he wasn’t sure. It was understandable...if a bit abrupt. The fact that he wouldn’t lie, wouldn’t give false reassurances was probably a rare thing. Shinra likely pandered to him because he was dangerous while keeping him on a tight leash. Vincent had-if inadvertently-shown him some small modicum of respect by not guaranteeing him anything at all. 

“Jenova is not my mother, so you say” was the detached comment. 

Vincent tried not to concentrate on the fact that Sephiroth wasn’t even winded as he nodded jerkily. 

“...Then who was?”

This he could work with. 

Ignoring the ingrained whisper in his mind that insisted that it was foolish to let his guard down in front of an opponent of such caliber, the onyx-haired ex-Turk made his way to the opposite side of the desk. Green irises observed him with a cat-like indifference...like he was prey dangling at the end of a bait line that the predator in question had simply chosen not to partake of just yet. Leaning against the oaken surface, Vincent weighed his thoughts...decided that Hojo’s parentage could wait...that the Project could wait in favor of his response. 

“Your mother was the woman I was assigned to” he replied, picking at a tear on his sleeve. “Lucrecia Crescent.” 

“Look at me.” 

Again, authoritative...expectant. He acquiesced because he knew why Sephiroth had demanded it of him, not because he felt like he had to. Those eyes held him for what seemed like an eternity...gauged the worth of his words like he was sucking it out of his soul. This he was used to; Turks were much the same when it came to determining verity. It was harder to work against his instinctual urge to repress...to make his expression as open and honest as he could without seeming like he was overcompensating. Something flickered across the General’s visage...something like a spasm of emotionalism with so many spectrums inside it he didn’t bother trying to analyze it all. 

“You’re not lying” was the flat continuation. Sephiroth looked away. “Or, at the very least, you think you aren’t.” 

Slowly...so as not to instigate another attack, Vincent pushed away from the table and paced to the left to a mostly unmarred bookshelf. From his memory, personnel records were kept there because they were easily accessible. Lucrecia’s was easy to find...Hojo’s somewhat harder. Hefting the mad scientist’s file in his hand...it occurred to him he’d never looked through it before, but there was nothing for it now. Returning to the desk, he passed Lucrecia’s over silently...watching it slide over the lacquered surface into waiting palms. For a moment, Sephiroth only looked at the cover...at the label...something in him seeming to hesitate before he lifted it delicately and thumbed it away. From where he was standing, the older man could see his charge’s photo...could see the fall of her hair over one shoulder...her smile...always so tenuous and so tentative. 

“You’ve a bit of her,” he remarked to fill the silence. “Your hair...your facial structure. The cells alter things, of course, but not so much that you’re separate from them.” 

“Them?” 

The sharpness in Sephiroth’s tone belied his emotionalism...so close to the surface. He couldn’t see it, but he could _hear_ it. And the way he was looking at her...at his mother. Accusingly, questioningly...it squeezed something in his chest that was so painful he wanted to yank it out. Slowly...he hefted the other file...watched as those beryl irises followed the movement.

“Your father,” he said quietly. A pause. “Biologically” Vincent added, and he couldn’t help the bitter derisiveness that flooded his tone. “Definitionally…” he trailed off, afraid of allowing himself to say more. 

The General’s gaze returned to Lucrecia’s file, almost as if cognizant of the horrible truth of his paternity. 

“Tell me about her.” 

Not a request but a demand...and the gunslinger supposed that was the only way he really knew how to ask for something. He didn’t know how long the younger man had been in a position of authority...probably too long. And what was there to say? That she’d been a part of the project that had brought about so much secrecy and deception? That she’d chosen to experiment on him instead of raising him? That she’d advocated for her husband’s choice rather than listening to reason? There was no good way to say that, no way to soften the blow. And he was possibly the worst person to be tasked with this, but he was under the distinct impression that the individual before him would not prefer sympathy...that he valued honesty more than he valued any type of pity or understanding.

“She was kind,” Vincent said finally, his voice heavy. “If a bit blind...too focused on her career. I think she thought she was doing something that would give you a better chance in this sort of world...making you stronger, smarter, hardier. And by the time she realized what was really going on, she was sick. Very sick, and she couldn’t escape.” His voice had hardened as he spoke...the resentment sweeping into it before he could stop it. And again, Sephiroth was looking at him, gauging his words because that was what he had been taught to do. “Lucrecia was smart...brilliant really. Nobody told her that, but she was. I don’t know if she truly understood motherhood until she was pregnant with you...until it was before her. Human life...it’s something Shinra disregards...which I’m sure you know.” He took a deep breath. “I couldn’t save her. I suppose I owe you an apology for that. I tried. A lot of people tried to reason with her but she didn’t understand until it was too late. And by then Hojo-”

He stopped and clenched his teeth.

“-Hojo saw you were getting in the way” was the deadpan continuation. “And he saw fit to remove you.” 

“Yes” Vincent replied, and it was more of an expulsion of breath...an admission of terrible pain. “She...she saved me...but the price of my life...it was high. And then you were born and she couldn’t see you, couldn’t hold you. It destroyed her, I think.” 

His voice broke on the word _‘destroyed.’_

“You loved her.”

A statement...a declaration of an assumed fact. Slowly, the gunslinger shook his head.

“I don’t really know” he replied. “Maybe. Maybe I could have loved her, maybe I didn’t love her enough.” Vincent closed her eyes. “Whatever it was...it wasn’t enough. Not for her to walk away from it.” 

“If I wasn’t enough, you weren’t going to be enough.”

It wasn’t a self-pitying statement. The verity of that made him want to scream a little bit, but Sephiroth’s expression wasn’t morose or desolate...merely factual. The acknowledgment of the truth that if maternal instinct hadn’t been enough to drive her...nothing would. And he was right, really. Lucrecia was too embroiled in it all, too deep in it to ever look for anything else. Maybe she’d thought that she couldn’t run far enough...that she couldn’t escape it and the only way she could continue was to push for more and more until maybe Hojo would have shown her mercy. He hadn’t, but it bore some consideration. It didn’t make it any less terrible. Didn’t make the truth that a mother had chosen science over her unborn child. 

“I suppose not,” he said uselessly.

“And my father?” 

Vincent swallowed, clutched the file in his hands tighter out of reflex. He couldn’t hide it...he knew. But it didn’t make revealing the truth of it any easier...didn’t make his task any less painful. And he wished he could speculate on over Sephiroth’s paternity, but he couldn’t. Lucrecia was anything but unfaithful, anything but dishonest. He forced himself to focus...force his fingers to unclench as he mechanically handed the record over. Those green eyes landed on the name on the cover and for the briefest moment, his entire body seemed to freeze. The room suddenly seemed incredibly small...seemed too close to contain a lie so large. He didn’t know how much contact the silver-haired FIRST had had with Hojo once the Project was moved to Midgar, but he imagined that the bespectacled scientist had kept him close like his other experiments...that he’d have been reluctant to let him be because he wanted to monitor his progress.

Sephiroth didn’t open the file. 

Instead, he merely looked at it like it was something detached and foreign before a bitter laugh spilled from his lips.

“Well, that explains quite a few things.” 

“I wish I could say otherwise” Vincent replied miserably.

“Wishing won’t get you anything” was the inflectionless return. Pale digits pushed the still-closed manilla folder onto the floor. “And you?”

The ex-Turk blinked.

“Me?”

Those green eyes surveyed him dispassionately for a moment before their owner rose in a fluid movement to cross the space between the desk and the bookshelf he’d perused. It took a few minutes, but the silver-haired SOLDIER plucked another folder from it before he returned and sat down to flip it open. The minute he did, he seemed to pause. 

“This file is twenty-eight years old.”

Vincent sagged somewhat as his suspicions were confirmed.

“...And?” he hedged, reluctant to continue. 

For the first time, Sephiroth appeared to be impatient with him. 

“Your information says you’re in your late fifties, but you don’t look a day over thirty.” 

Breaking that impassive gaze for the first time, the gunslinger closed his eyes.

“I told you my life came at a cost,” he said numbly. 

“You can’t age” was the bland statement.

Exhaling raggedly, the older man shook his head.

“Apparently not.” 

The silence that stretched between them was palatable. Unhappily, the older man wondered where they could possibly go with this...what they could do. He couldn’t let Sephiroth turn him in, he wasn’t going to become a Turk again and he wasn’t going to be a slave to Shinra. Vincent didn’t want to fight the younger man again...not after divulging so much sensitive information, but the tactician in him didn’t see any other options. The sense of monumental, universal threat had passed...and he was somewhat relieved over that. He didn’t know what would have come of it all if he hadn’t intervened if he hadn’t brought forth some type of truth but wondering about it wouldn’t do either of them any good. They were-he acknowledged grimly-two individuals set apart from everything...from so much they did and didn’t understand. The symbiosis was clear but he was fairly sure that Sephiroth didn’t see it that way. He might be able to be subjective, but the individual before him was a trained killer. Nothing he said or did was indicative of his true feelings on the matter.

“Where have you been?” 

This question, if possible, was more painful. Not because it wasn’t justified, but because now that he was up and walking again his reasoning seemed a bit pathetic. He’d gone to ground to atone, but what had his atonement gotten him? Here, in a dim library filled with ghosts and he had no good answers, nothing positive to offer and nothing positive in his past. 

“When I woke up...Lucrecia was dead” he began haltingly. “I had...been merged with a demon of sorts...a WEAPON for the Planet. It doesn’t think...it only feels rage...only wants destruction. I can control it most of the time, but I’m not always successful. I thought I was a monster...so I sealed myself away here, to keep the Planet safe...and to atone for the things I didn’t do.” 

“And yet it doesn’t seem to have done much good at all” was the cold response.

“I’m not saying it was the right choice,” the crimson eyed man said heavily. “But at the time, it was the only one I could fathom.” 

“I have just one more question.” 

Looking across at that stern, taciturn and _beautiful_ visage, Vincent felt a kind of heaviness descend upon him. Because he had a feeling where this was going...what it was leading to. And he wanted to protest, but he couldn’t. There wasn’t any logic behind it. Tilting his head, Sephiroth blinked...once, twice...as if savoring the melodrama of the moment...but he seriously doubted it. When the General spoke again, his suspicions were confirmed.

“...Give me one reason why I should let you live.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:** Turning out a bit larger than I thought. Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

If he never set foot in another library, he would be the happiest man on Gaia.

Watching as that massive, ridiculously sharp katana cleaved through a bookcase and narrowly missed his head, Vincent acknowledged that he would trade all the books in the world for a moment of sanity in this situation. He hadn’t been able to give Sephiroth a reason, had told him so firmly and directly, and this was the result. It was somewhat miraculous that he wasn’t bleeding yet-or so he told himself-and this time the younger man was clearly intent on killing him. The degree to which the General had been holding back was interesting-so he told himself-in a purely lethal way. 

Anyone who wasn’t trained for extreme degrees of combat would have been running for the hills but the professional in him was quietly admirative of his adversary’s prowess. It wasn’t like he was going to get very far anyway. Not unless he let Chaos out-which was becoming an increasing possibility every single moment-and he didn’t want to do that because he didn’t know where he’d wake up and he didn’t know what his soul-hitchhiking entity would do. Well...he did….he just wouldn’t be able to remember it. No, if he suddenly turned into a massive coward and decided to turn tail he got the distinct impression that Sephiroth would chase him across the continent just for the hell of it. 

Because he had obviously inherited his mother’s stubbornness.

They were eventually going to destroy the structural foundations of the mansion. This much was glaringly apparent and he didn’t relish the thought of being buried under tons of wood and rock. For someone who had spent two decades in a coffin, this was an odd vein of thought but it made him hopeful in terms of his own mental state. Regardless of the amount of work put into the integrity of the basement, it was not going to hold out against this sort of combat for very long. And he cursed himself for letting the silver-haired FIRST get close to his sword...cursed his reduced logical deduction in the face of so much time unconscious or brooding. He hadn’t gone for Cerberus because the retort could potentially draw unwanted attention. 

Swords were loud but guns were-of course-louder. Landing a hit was considerably harder due to the amount of reach the blade in question could garner. He had to be constantly aware of it, constantly watching his back and his front and all sides at all times. Vincent had never been a swordsman, he wasn’t partial to it at all. Why put up all the fuss with an antiquated weapon when firearms were much easier to utilize and-usually-much more lethal? He’d never understood Shinra’s insistence in terms of swordplay. It had never made sense to him but he supposed there wasn’t any point speculating over it while he was trying to avoid getting his head separated from his shoulders.

His first instinct was to complain about it.

Throwing a decorative vase behind him and not waiting to see if it made an impact, Vincent reflected that it probably wouldn’t do him much good. Sephiroth wasn’t talking at all, and he was going to return the favor. He got the distinct impression that reason was beyond him at this point and verbalization would only slow him down and distract him. Shinra’s Finest was homicidally focused to a degree that would have been admirable if he hadn’t been the target. And it wasn’t like this was _his_ fault. The older man considered this grouchily as his silver-haired adversary ducked to avoid his spin-kick and spun his sword in a wide arc. It wasn’t like _he_ had started the Jenova project. Granted, he hadn’t done anything about it either, but he was at least less guilty than Hojo or Gast and he didn’t appreciate that being the bearer of bad news had culminated in such a spectacularly violent result. He wondered idly if the General had any weaknesses at all short of cutting his limbs off or decapitating him. 

The logical part of his brain insisted that this was the expected outcome.

Sephiroth had chosen violence because the alternative was expression, and he’d likely been taught that expression was a crutch. The Turks were taught a similar vein of doctrine but they were also taught the difference between suppression and _repression_. Taking a step back to collect yourself was important, but it was painfully clear that his opponent did not have that ability. And it was just his luck that he had his lot thrown in with the most emotionally constipated individual on the planet but there wasn’t a lot he could do with it now. A flicker to his left, and he was distracted by the feint long enough for the hilt of that monstrous katana to hit him in the side of the face. Blood flooded his mouth...hot and coppery and he spat it out disgustedly even as he acknowledged-with relief-that he hadn’t gotten his jaw broken or his teeth cracked...which was a little bit miraculous. Foregoing restraint for a moment, the gunslinger lashed out with an uncategorized materia and had the sincere pleasure of watching three rows of bookcases contract before exploding outwards in a hail of wood and scattered paper. Sephiroth was forced to roll to the left to avoid getting a lethal amount of splinters. Vincent took that opportunity to check Cerberus to see if he actually had any bullets at all. 

He did. He didn’t want to use them...but he did.

All of his efforts were negligible-of course-if the green-eyed First was utilizing some type of Shield but he seriously doubted it. The fact that he’d been able to land a hit prior to their discussion was indicative of the fact that the General had either deemed it unnecessary to bring any type of materia into the basement, or he didn’t normally carry them at all. Considering the amount of power the younger man exuded, a part of him wanted to insisted that a protection materia was probably overkill but he remembered reading in a field manual that SOLDIERS were expected to utilize defense magic whenever and wherever possible so he didn’t dismiss the concept entirely. He wasn’t going to win this battle purely by defense though, and while he was reluctant to try something extreme...he was out of options. Running through a list of preformulated scenarios, Vincent went for the most lethal one possible. It was lethal in the sense that if it didn’t work it was going to kill him. And if it _did_ work, he might have to kill Sephiroth. 

Vincent let his guard down. 

Subtly, of course; doing it obviously would have ousted his intentions immediately and his opponent was far too clever for him to forgo intelligence in favor of haste. The former Turk made a great show of utilizing the bookcases as cover; weaved behind and between them while the younger man gave chase with his usual single-minded focus. He made use of another materia just for show but didn’t really pay attention to where it was going. Instead, he flipped over the desk in the middle of the room, scattered the files they’d been looking at onto the floor and pivoted as if to defend from another blow. This time, however, he kept his left side open...angled his body just so and grasped his gun at the same time. He had to lean a bit to exaggerate the positioning, but the silver-haired man went for it anyway and that was what he wanted. Narrowing his eyes, he exhaled as that black and silver blur rushed towards him...pupils constricting even as he readied his free arm. Two seconds to contact and he brought it upwards along with his right leg...dualized the effort of kicking and pushing the katana to the side so he could meet the General head-on with nothing between them.

Vincent then drew Cerberus and pressed it directly between those glorious, _murderous_ green eyes.

Sephiroth froze. 

It was a moment somewhat suspended in time...really. And a part of him was delirious about the fact that he’d succeeded. Not in the sense of pride, but in the sense of profound relief. The alternative would have been disembowelment straight through his kidneys and he tried to focus less on the risk of it and more on what he was going to do next. He could tell merely by looking that this was the first time anyone had done anything like this...that it was the first time anyone had succeeded in posing a real, mortal threat to the younger man. Anger still glittered in his gaze but it was coupled with something else...something more profound. It took the gunslinger a moment to realize that it was respect. He acknowledged it and put it to the side because respect didn’t matter right now. His focus wasn’t garnering any type of admiration or acknowledgment, he just wanted this to stop. Finding a middle ground at this point was virtually impossible, but at least he had the upper hand...for now. Wiping the blood from his lips with his free hand, the former Turk spoke.

“I don’t want to kill you,” he said calmly, tonelessly. “But you’re not leaving me with very many alternatives.” 

The sneer that morphed over pristine features was as beautiful as it was feral. When the silver-haired SOLDIER jerked forward as if to disregard his statement he let his thumb flick upwards in order to cock his weapon. The _***click***_ that echoed between them was a clear statement. It was both a threat and a supplication. Because he didn’t _want_ this. But he would do it. And again Sephiroth was motionless save for his eyes, which roamed his features as if searching for the verity of his statement. Vincent let it show on his face...let the sincerity of his words play openly upon his visage. Even as he did so, his index finger hovered over the trigger...so close he could feel the cool eminence of the curvature of metal radiating outwards. And he knew the General was equally aware of his lack of hesitance...of his complete and utter dedication to what he would and could do. To an outsider, it might have seemed extreme; but he knew that if Sephiroth killed now, he’d go on to kill more. Now that the truth of his identity was laid bare his desire revenge was so palatable Vincent could nearly taste it. He knew-instinctively-that in order to get that revenge people would die. Innocent people. His upbringing didn’t allow him to be circumspect once he identified an enemy; and right now...everyone was an enemy. That wasn’t going to happen on his watch. 

No more innocents would die because he couldn’t overlook someone beautiful to prevent something terrible. 

And Sephiroth was beautiful. Even in his steadfastness, he could acknowledge it. And it was more than that of his physicality. His determination was admirable, as was his logic...and there was no ignoring his brilliance. It made him terribly sad because the individual before him could have been so different...could have been happier...could have given the world a lot of good if he hadn’t been so lax in his judgment. Vincent could have prevented this...possibly. If he’d been more forceful if he’d taken instead of giving. But there was no time for regrets now...he could regret this later...if he had to. When he left Lucrecia’s son bleeding out on the floor he could leave and crawl into some dark hole and let this tear him apart. And it would. He was fairly convinced that this would destroy him utterly...but he would let it destroy him once he’d done the destroying. 

“I’m sorry” he continued hoarsely. Sephiroth jerked but it was an involuntary thing. “I didn’t advocate for you, for her. I didn’t try hard enough. I can’t change that. But this...this doesn’t have to end this way.” He was locked in those beryl orbs...and he knew they would forever haunt him, knew they would chase him to his grave. “Please don’t make me do this, Sephiroth.” 

His voice broke, but his aim didn’t. His purpose didn’t sway and something about it caused a shift in the gaze before him. And he realized he’d been looking anywhere but those eyes...because they were tortured. They were hunted and tired and so, so young. The visage before them betrayed them because it was expressionless but those eyes were screaming at him, so loud that they were nearly incoherent. Who wouldn’t be incoherent in the face of this? With the knowledge that their mother had died broken and alone...with the knowledge that the man who had likely brutalized him as a youth was his father? With the knowledge the company he worked for was nothing but a regime that had used and used him because that was what he had-essentially-been created for? Who wouldn’t fall to insanity with the knowledge that they were nothing but a tool? And Vincent wanted to tell him that he wasn’t a tool, that he was still a man but he knew that such words wouldn’t help, that they would take away from whatever he was trying to accomplish. There were no words that could assuage this, and both of them knew it. 

Sephiroth’s sword fell.

The clatter was loud but he didn’t move...didn’t drop his position. The General was just as dangerous unarmed as he was armed and he wasn’t going to be so foolish as to relinquish his guard just because his opponent had. When the younger man moved back, he followed...kept his weapon where it was...paced forwards as the silver-haired SOLDIER retreated. Further...further until he’d dropped into the chair he’d evacuated to lunge for his sword. And he could see the effort it took to relinquish that control...the massive mental shift it required to give way. Sephiroth’s body was so tense...still poised for combat and Vincent was not comfortable enough to give him the benefit of the doubt. There was too much pent-up energy...too much of that tautness born from battle. It had nowhere to go, and so they stayed. It was-in a terrible sort of way-comforting to acknowledge that the silver-haired FIRST could acknowledge his mortality. The fact that he had retreated was telling in terms of what he knew of his physicality. And Vincent was relieved that he wasn’t so far gone that he was willing to die just to save face. 

“I have to kill you.” 

A statement. Again. There was no threat behind it. Vincent had opened his mouth to reply when his adversary continued.

“But I don’t want to.” 

He understood.

He did. And it was a bit of a query as well...shivering behind the concreteness of the vociferation. The SOLDIER in Sephiroth was insisting he deal with him because he was a threat. Circumventing that concept of a threat was nigh impossible because the amount of conditioning he’d likely gone through to get there was horrific. And Shinra could tote its finesse like a flag but underneath the efficiency and technology was the truth that Administration turned a blind eye to what they were doing to their men. And if his suspicions were correct, the General had likely gone through far more unspeakable things to get to where he was...to the position he was in. Shinra didn’t trust easily. For the green-eyed FIRST to be given such a position was a testament to his employers’ confidence in their ability to control him. Coupled with what he’d uncovered, Sephiroth would probably kill anyone who got in his way at the given moment. Because he was helpless against his ingrained proclivities. Licking his lips, Vincent considered his options before speaking.

“When…” he paused and then continued onwards. “In circumstances like this...when you attack...you’re not giving yourself control.” A facial muscle in that immaculate face twitched, but the gunslinger ignored it. “You’re giving whatever H-whatever _Shinra_ -has taught you control.” Pale fingers clenched on the arm of the chair. “Stop letting them have so much power over you.”

“And what do you know about Shinra?” was the cold response, but this time there was a vein of terrible bitterness behind it. “What do you know about pain?” 

“Shinra was torturing people long before you came along,” the former Turk said darkly. “And I’ve already told you that Hojo experimented on me.”

It was a bit of a stretch.

Hojo had tortured him, but his memories of it were hazy. Snippets of delirious pain combined with a deep well of nothingness. Vincent didn’t know how long the mad scientist had worked on him before Lucrecia intervened before she tried to save him. And he didn’t really know what kind of toll the experiments had taken on him. Certainly not as much as a victim that was conscious through them...that was aware of what was going on. There was-he acknowledged bitterly-no telling how much of his physicality was due to Hojo’s actions and how much of it was due to Chaos. Maybe it was a combination of the two, maybe it didn’t matter. He was-however-trying to find some type of ground for them to stand on together. What it was wasn’t particularly relevant, just that he found it and could keep them on it. 

“How do you do it?” The gunslinger supposed his expression must have mirrored his inward confusion because Sephiroth continued. “How do you push past it?”

The chuckle that spilled from his lips was bitter...grating.

“I didn’t” Vincent replied. “I holed myself up in a coffin and told myself that the world was better off without me.” 

The scorn on the younger man’s face was painful to witness, but it was also justified.

“I don’t want a coffin. I want to _put_ people in coffins.” 

“It won’t fix anything” the former Turk countered. “It’s not the same, but it’s not different. Don’t make the same mistakes that I did. Don’t let your proclivities rule you.” 

The hypocrisy of it wasn’t lost to him. Vincent could talk and talk about choosing right and wrong but that didn’t change the fact that he hadn’t done the same. And the way those green eyes were looking at him told him that Sephiroth knew it. The General knew there was a heinous amount of blood on his hands on account of the simple verity of choosing inaction. There was still respect, however...and that was encouraging but he didn’t allow himself to dwell on it. Mostly because he suspected that it was more out of the fact that he’d somehow gotten them here than it was due to the impact of his words. And he’d never thought he would be someone who would have to lead by disastrous example, but that’s what he was attempting to do. 

“What should I do instead?” was the frigid query. “Ignore it? Continue as I always have? Subservient and silent?”

He considered the question carefully.

“Maybe…” the gunslinger said slowly. “Maybe you should focus on fixing it. On correcting what Shinra has done rather than tearing it down further.” 

This time, it was Sephiroth that laughed...and like his, it was humorless and dull.

“There’s barely anything to salvage” was the decisive statement. “You’ve been gone so long you don’t even know the world’s falling to shambles.” 

“Maybe” Vincent replied, ignoring the concern that stirred in his chest with the statement. “But that doesn’t mean you have to be a facet in its destruction.” 

Those eyes locked with his again...and again they were considering...but it was consideration of a different type. They weren’t gauging his worth, instead, they appeared to be gauging something else...something that he couldn’t read. And there was still tension between them, but that too had morphed itself; contorted and squeezed from some dark necrosis into an unidentifiable thing. The older man opened his mouth to say something, anything really, but then Sephiroth was rising...slowly...his hands loose and open...his posture non-confrontational. There was still something seeking about it though, something hungry, and that was what kept his hand where it was...what kept him following the movement with Cerberus. He was-he acknowledged-apprehensive..but he didn’t know what of. Only that it shivered low in his belly and spread outwards...not quite warm and not quite cold.

Sephiroth was taller than him.

Not by very much...by a negligible amount really... but the way he was looming over him...it was hard to ignore. Powerful...impassive and flawless and it made him feel a little bit insignificant, a little bit uncertain and a little self-conscious. A black-leather-clad hand reached upwards and he stiffened, but it only acted so much as to slide the barrel of his gun from the General’s forehead to his temple...held it there firmly for a moment before deceptively thin fingers dropped again. Closer...closer...his adversary moved closer...well beyond the limits of acceptable personal space but Vincent was abruptly frozen. And those beryl irises weren’t soft but they weren’t hard either; weren’t cruel or cold...merely contemplative. Some part of him was screaming for him to stop this but his body wouldn’t listen to his mind. Crimson eyes focused on the cupid’s bow of sanguine lips...on the full flush of lower vermillion that was inching so close. He felt his own part in response...his physicality answering the ingress before he could stop it. Cool breath over his mouth...scentless...tasteless really, and he was still stupidly immobile and-...

...Sephiroth kissed him.

Those hands slid into his hair...threaded through it and a shiver ran over his scalp even as the culmination of the younger man’s actions became perfectly clear. He was surprised by it, and he wasn’t. Even as he tried to remain entirely immobile under the General’s ministrations...his mind raced. Desire was something he hadn’t thrown into his logical deduction, but he was forced to consider it now. Vincent had presented the silver-haired SOLDIER with logic; had bested him-somewhat-in a fight and given a good reason for doing so. This was-more than likely-the green-eyed FIRST’s way of giving back...his gratuity, so-to-speak...so he thought. And it was clear that Sephiroth was no virgin; that he knew how to kiss, and he knew how to kiss men of unstated sexual preference. Knew to keep things in check somewhat before assuming reciprocation...knew how to supplicate in a way that didn’t terribly unbalance the playing field. There was nothing dominant about it...nothing that demanded his submission in any way, shape, or form. And his lips were cool...unblemished and full and it had been a very, very long time. 

“You’re overthinking this.”

Deep...velvety...expressive without expression and Vincent wanted to push him away but he didn’t. Those lips descended again and the older man’s mouth was moving without him, was giving in in a haze of want and confusion. And the physicality before him was built for temptation...was formulated with the idealism of perfection in mind. A lock of silky silver hair brushed his cheek and he nearly shivered for it. He lowered Cerberus...disengaged it, put the safety on and tucked it back into its holster because there really wasn’t any point anymore. The gunslinger kept his hands at his sides but the desire to touch was almost overwhelming. He was _burning_ and it didn’t make any sense at all...didn’t want to culminate into anything in his mind and he was quickly losing track of his professionalism...quickly giving over despite the Turk in him insisting it was dangerous. A chuckle, air rushing across his visage and he swallowed...face flushed and his pants tight.

“For all your talk” Sephiroth murmured against his lips. “You certainly don’t seem to know when your body wants something that’s given freely.” The ebon-haired ex-Turk _did_ shiver then, and the tongue that flickered against the crease of his mouth was like a hot brand. _”Take it”_

He did. 

Throwing caution to the wind, he drew the proffered appendage deep...sucked mindlessly until the weight of the action felt like it was filling him up. The groan of approval he received in response was more reciprocatory than it was involuntarily. The older man lifted a hand to tangle in that glorious, endless waterfall of silver and acknowledged that at least this was better than fighting. The excuse in of itself was pathetic but he was too far gone. Sephiroth’s advances were strong...pointed and ravenous and when he shivered it only seemed to encourage him. A large palm curved over his hip...thumb stroking over the hollow where groin met thigh, and the jolt of pleasure that the action sent up his spine was jarring enough that he pulled away with a sharp intake of breath. Those eyes…. _those eyes_...they were burning into him...searing into him and he didn’t know if he could stop at this point...didn’t know if he could walk away…

Sephiroth smiled.

And for the first time since he’d awoken, Vincent found that he was truly, _sincerely_ , afraid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:** This keeps getting longer. Apparently it's entirely out of my control. Nevertheless, thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

He was fairly sure he was breaking every rule in the Turk handbook.

Half-leaning against the desk in the middle of the library with his cape somewhat caught beneath him...Vincent reflected that the handbook hadn’t had much relevance in their encounter to begin with, but this was teetering between insubordination and complete insanity to a degree that left him slightly dizzy. Not that he wasn’t slightly off-kilter already. Backed up against a hard, oaken surface, his lips fused with those of an individual who was-as far as he was concerned-far too attractive for this to be entirely fair...it was easy enough to admit that his mental faculties were entirely compromised. Lithe, strong fingers were clutching his waist...calloused digits gripping the side of his neck with a little more force than was really necessary and it was terrible and glorious and so reckless he half-expected it to end before it began. Shifting, the gunslinger lifted heavy lids, swallowed against the thick feeling in his throat even as he tried to micromanage the kiss...as he tried to keep this something that didn’t breach every boundary he’d set for himself.

He was failing.

Sephiroth was everywhere. And he didn’t know how it was possible for someone who was so emotionally frigid to be so sexually expressive but he was managing spectacularly. Every nip, every suck, every touch was imbued with a kind of dark fire that ignited a deep recognition within him. The General was every bit the picture of desirous focus...knew how to supplicate...knew when to push and when to pause. And his body was starved for this...needy and wanting and hungry after so long spent abstaining. He hadn’t bothered with the specifics of sexuality beyond his assignment to Lucrecia. It just hadn’t seemed like a necessary thing. Vincent had been more focused on his career and less on his physical needs at that point...but maybe that had been a grave oversight. Attraction was something that was less about gender and more about quality to him. He’d been very attracted to Lucrecia but Sephiroth-frankly-was an anomaly. He was male, of course, but they didn’t have that emotional foundation he liked to build upon. He’d told himself this over and over again. As the younger man proffered him his tongue and he’d given his in return he’d tried to tell himself that this was groundless but even with that in mind he couldn’t bring himself to reject the advance entirely.

They were silent. 

It was clear that neither of them were particularly vocal when it came to arousal. The ex-Turk had had his share of lovers who were somewhat vociferous in bed. He could appreciate the sentiment behind it but he’d never been able to return it. Sephiroth was equally reserved and somehow the soundlessness of it seemed to amplify everything else. The rasp of clothes...the exchange of breath...the muted exchange of mouth against mouth. Every rustle, every exhale was magnified in volume by the stillness of their transposition. It was a little beguiling...a little on the edge of a shimmering, trembling manifestation that bloomed in his fingertips and rushed forward to encompass the entirety of his being. Vincent was attuned to detail out of occupation and habituality. He could-grudgingly-admit that this was the essence of given allowance...of focus and a part of him thrilled to it in a way that was not at all innocent. And it was troublesome but somehow inexorable...vexing yet fascinating. 

Sephiroth was too young.

He knew this...knew it intimately. It didn’t matter that his physicality was-by all accounts-of greater youth. Vincent’s mentality was more mature...had a greater scope of right and wrong and he knew better than to take advantage. It might have been argued that spending two decades in a coffin hadn’t allowed his psyche to evolve, but that would have been a falsity. He’d spent two decades thinking...dreaming...understanding and wishing for things that could never be ever again. Assigning himself blamelessness was frivolous to the point of criminality. The individual currently threading his fingers through his hair in a manner that was just on the side of possessive was young enough to be his progeny. Moreover, he was traumatized...inundated with dogma that had likely been drilled into his head since he was little more than a toddler. The silver-haired SOLDIER licking into his mouth was twisted and broken in a way that made their exchange vicious in its imbalance of logical thought. The professional in him was insistent over the fact that this was wrong on several prominent scales.

That-of course-didn’t mean that he wanted to stop.

Someone else might have been comforted by the fact that Sephiroth was clearly not a virgin. The General exuded passion in a manner indicative of previous experience...though how many experiences that might be he couldn’t say. His advances were pointed, confident and adept...but he didn’t know how much of that proficiency was born from practice and how much of it was genetically engineered prowess. Bitterly, he reflected that Shinra’s heinous degrees of corruption in terms of human experimentation made it impossible for their subjects to live normally; both on a social scale and a physical scale. Anything Sephiroth did was questionable because he was the perfect specimen...but that was all he was. If Vincent knew him better, he might have been able to be more objective but everything was muddled and blurred and entirely up in the air. He didn’t know how much this would damage him...he didn’t know if _rejecting_ him would damage him. 

There was no right or wrong conclusion...and it was driving him to ruin. 

_Ruin_ of course being the fact that he hovered on the edge of a double-sided blade the longer this played out. And when those searing lips left his to chart a path down to his jawline in slow, unhurried sucks he arched his neck mindlessly...felt his mouth fall open to release an entirely involuntary huff of air...felt his body rise to it in an instinctive gesture purely garnered from the desire to reciprocate need with equal need. His fingers were sliding through lengths of platinum like it was the chemical element wrought in follicular form...the weight of it heavy and slithering over his palms like stellular dust. And Vincent could tell that Sephiroth was not used to being touched with veneration...with acknowledgement of something other than appreciation of his physicality. Every so often he would pause-though not for long-would seem to hover on the edge of pulling away before seeking greater contact. Some part of him ached for that...for the fact that no one had ever seen fit to see past his exterior...to show him that affection was something that could be taken and not only given. 

And Sephiroth was clearly more than the sum of his beauty.

He was quiet in the sense of eternal internal rumination. Every word that fell from his lips was obviously turned over with a kind of careful consideration before he spoke. Some might have hearkened it to a lack of intelligence, but there was painful evidence that the younger man was simply thoughtful in a manner that others were not. Vincent could relate to that in a way that left a throbbing, bittersweet kind of ache in his chest. Because he had been that person at one point...though not through trauma...simply because that was who he was. And maybe it wasn’t fair to chalk every aspect of the General’s taciturn persona to his upbringing...maybe that steady...tenuous silence was simply who _he_ was as well. It was easy to overlook a lack of verbosity and blame it on an absence of mentality...easy to dismiss brilliance because that brilliance wasn’t loud and ostentatious. The gunslinger was sure that others could appreciate the silver-haired SOLDIER’s field tactics...his lethality...but underneath that was personality. 

In his opinion, personality mattered far more.

He was rationalizing it...and he knew it...knew that the fact that he was trying to categorize and compartmentalize what was occuring wasn’t honorable. Vincent wanted to push away, wanted to find some sort of verbal common ground so they could walk away from this without potentially tearing themselves to pieces. But the hand on his neck had threaded into his hair in a mimicry of his previous actions; had stroked along his scalp before running through the strands and the tentative affection in it made him weak. Because Sephiroth could be as sensual and suggestive as he wanted, but he was clearly uncertain in the face of tenderness. A part of him was resentful of whatever previous lovers the younger man may have had...because he’d obviously been used and then discarded. Maybe that was the cost of being so powerful...having strings of admirers that only wanted your body but didn’t want to deal with your mind. He couldn’t imagine what the knowledge of such preconceived disposability was like. 

Vincent wanted to _erase_ that concept.

A hand gripped his thigh reflexively...flexed and then squeezed as the kiss was reinitiated. The thrill that ran through him was a little bit like thunder...like the preherald of a storm vibrating through him and the gunslinger opened his legs without really thinking about it. Lithe hips settled between them and the bulk of the arousal that settled into his groin was firm and unyielding through leather fatigues...swollen against his as one of his hands slammed down onto the desk in an attempt to ground himself even as his body undulated into it...as he pushed upwards only to be met with a slow grind that had sparks exploding behind his eyes. Thoughtlessly, he bit down on the tongue invading his mouth and Sephiroth _shivered_...those fingers tightened and the younger man pulled away until their lips were hovering but centimeters apart.

“Do you do this to everyone that offers you somewhat logical advice?” Vincent muttered, his voice somewhat frayed.

The pause that followed was long enough that he began to think that perhaps the General had changed his mind. And that might have been relieving...might have offered him the moral recompense he was seeking. The hand on his leg shifted...trailed inwards to trace the crease of thigh and torso before it cupped him...fingers splayed wide and the abrupt contact of it was almost over stimulating but not quite. The gunslinger stiffened, hips jerking just once as the younger man squeezed perfunctorily, cerise lips curling in a smile that wasn’t innocent at all as he leaned forward to breathe into the former Turk’s ear.

“Do you think talking about this is going to make you want it less?” 

An index finger traced upwards...over the tent of his arousal to finger the button of his leathers before snapping them open in a gesture that was too quick to follow. The green-eyed SOLDIER’s free hand rose further to pull inexorably at Vincent’s headband...letting it traverse the length of his hair so that it could fall away onto the floor. Beryl irises darkened hungrily as an onyx river was wrought before him...as the gunslinger’s bangs surrendered to gravity and descended to frame his jawline and further down. Dextrous digits freed the first three fasteners to the former Turk’s cloak-until the majority of his neck was exposed-but left the rest. The ebon-haired man stiffened as the catch to his gauntlet was disengaged but didn’t move to stop the younger man as he pulled it away and set it to the side. The quiet _***chink***_ the metal of it made on the wooden surface of the desk was nearly deafening in the stillness of the room.

“We shouldn-”

-The return of the kiss silenced him, and this time it was harder than the rest...deeper and more purposeful. Somewhat undressed and completely outperformed, Vincent floundered in it...felt the last tatters of his logic break free...escape him like the final leaves of a tree fluttering to the ground in Autumn. The hand that had been disrobing him cupped his elbow even as the other slid into the gap of his open fatigues, calloused distal creases brushing the head of his cock...ring finger swirling over the tip to catch the bead of pre-ejaculate that emerged under his companion’s ministrations. And the appreciative hum that left Sephiroth’s lips was once more for Vincent’s benefit and not so much out of inorexible response. As his need was enveloped in a loose grip he couldn’t bring himself to be indignant about it. The General palmed the heft of him...felt along the underside to press over the vein before reascending in an almost-contemplative manner. 

“Should…” was the murmured response before Sephiroth nipped at his lower lip….green eyes heavy-lidded. “Shouldn’t….” A suck and the older man had to grit his teeth to keep from thrusting into that palm. “We could debate for hours and you wouldn’t be any more sure.” A wry chuckle against his throat. “You’re the self-flagellating, indecisive type...I can tell.” Vincent opened his mouth to argue but couldn’t as the General abruptly dropped to his knees. His breath caught as green eyes burned up at him...and he somewhat distractedly acknowledged that no, the younger man was _not_ unexperienced. Lithe fingers tugged his fatigues down somewhat...until he was fully exposed...aching and rigid, the cool air of the library doing nothing to assuage the heat inside of him. That pink tongue flickered out to taste him perfunctorily and Vincent heard himself gasp...and his companion paused. “...Let it go.” 

Sephiroth then proceeded to swallow his dick. 

It wasn’t exactly unexpected, but it was so sudden that Vincent arched forward until he hit the back of the younger man’s throat and fought himself back down. Miraculously, the General didn’t gag...didn’t even flinch at the gunslinger’s lack of decorum and control. Instead, he followed his movement, drove forward even as the former Turk retreated...took him to the hilt and kept him there. It took everything in his power to keep still...to keep the choke that collected over his tongue from spilling outwards into the air. Sephiroth swallowed and he wasn’t entirely sure if he was going cross-eyed or not. To ameliorate this, he let his lids slide shut and breathed out through his nose as smoothly as he was able to. This proved difficult given that it felt like he’d had his cock sucked into a vacuum. And it was somewhat surprising that the younger man could do this at all, but given the nature of the SOLDIER barracks and the overall rampant suppression Shinra toted he really wasn’t surprised at the same time. 

That didn’t mean-of course-that he wasn’t enjoying it.

Sephiroth worked him over like he’d been wanting to do it since he’d first laid eyes on him. Vincent seriously doubted that he had-he’d been trying to kill him, after all-but the things he could do with his tongue were so sharply adverse to the picture of stoicism he portrayed externally and it was a little overwhelming and a little glorious at the same time. Pale cheeks hollowed out as the silver-haired SOLDIER sucked almost absentmindedly before drawing upwards-a hand following the movement-and licking over the head of his arousal. Beryl irises locked with his once more as the General tongued the slit before descending again. Once more, the sounds of their exchange were a substance wrought in auditory allure; his unsteady intake of breath coupled with the actions of his companion were the only things he could fixate on, and they were driving him to distraction. 

Leaning backwards somewhat, the older man tried to concentrate on the feeling of the wood of the desk pressing against the lower part of his backside in favor of utterly embarrassing himself. One of Sephiroth's hands found his thigh again; thumb stroking over the inside as the other swept between so deft fingers could fondle his testes...bypassing them after a moment in order to trace the soft-hard line of his perineum. Index and middle finger pressed inward somewhat...had him thrusting upward until he realized what he was doing and forced himself back down. The General didn't linger...slid further until he could feel calloused epidermis stroking over the rutch of his entrance before pausing. Green eyes sought his...held them and Vincent acknowledged that it was as much sought permission as he was going to get; that this was his decision and he needed to make it quickly. 

If he was going to Hell...he might as well do it thoroughly; Veld always said there was nothing worse than a half-assed job. 

The gunslinger tilted his hips, let his torso arch slightly in acquiescence; felt the fingers in question clench tightly around one buttock-squeezing appreciatively-before retreating. The mouth surrounding him relented somewhat, became less of an inevitable freight train barreling towards orgasm and more of a slow...easy distraction. There was the rustle of cloth...of leather and buckles...the chink of glass and something flared aquamarine. Alarm coursed through him and he stiffened only to be shushed absentmindedly as his companion brought his fingers back; this time wet and somewhat olgeanous. Some of his reticence and tentative curiosity must have shown on his face because Sephiroth raised an eyebrow and drew away from his cock. 

“Water, Cura” he muttered distracted. 

“Water, Cura _what?_ ” Vincent slurred, fighting against the urge to push for more one way or the other. 

“Materia” was the equally incoherent response. “Partial fusion creates a semi-coagulant.” 

Vincent supposed-somewhat dryly-that this was where a _'kids these days’_ comment might be entirely accurate. Thankfully, the green-eyed FIRST chose that moment to penetrate him with a long, wet digit that-shockingly-did not hurt at all. It was, so he assumed, at least some facet of the Cura. And when gay sex had become so professional he didn't know but he didn't care either. He also didn't care for a lengthy, drawn out preparatory affair so when Sephiroth had lined himself up to add his middle finger he snagged his wrist and shoved it away. That flawless forehead wrinkled somewhat as the older man forced the General up and back before the gunslinger kicked off his fatigues and boots; hiked one leg up slightly; leaning against the counter for support. 

“I'll do it” he said somewhat raggedly, swiping the half-dissolved fusion of two materia and dragging his fingers through it. Raising an eyebrow at the silver-haired SOLDIER's somewhat stymied expression, he smirked. “Can't have you monopolizing everything” he commented, the ending of his verbalization coming out slightly breathy as he angled his hips and got to work. Biting his lip, he stared downwards through strands of wayward onyx. “Are you complaining?”

It seemed that Sephiroth needed a moment to gather his thoughts. When he did, he cleared his throat and rose; fingers stroking over the former Turk's erection before nudging the crimson-eyed man's chin up to mouth at his lips. 

“No.”

The angle was a little awkward. He had to hunch forward with his upper torso while angling his lower back in the opposite direction. Spreading his legs at slightly different elevations helped; as did concentrating on the kiss. Vincent didn't aim for his prostate, kept his movements purely clinical out of need for efficiency and thoroughness. The feeling of being stretched wasn't new to him, but it did give him a distinct impression of anticipation. When the General unbuttoned his fatigues to reveal the pale, thick and flushed length of his cock the impression only intensified. And he was far past misgivings now...eons beyond second thoughts and ruminations of right or wrong. With the catch and drag of two then three phalanges against his rim,  
-through and upwards-the morality of it escaped him. What was most prominent was the feeling of ravenous observation; of those green eyes watching him..watching his fingers slide in and out of his hole with a kind of hungry intent. It was strange to be appreciated during an act that was so obviously meant for haste, but it wasn't dismissible either. It was enough to distract him, enough for him to lose his focus to the point that he crooked his fingers entirely involuntarily and the grunt that fell from his lips was half surprise and half pleasure. 

Cerise lips parted at the sound. 

And he wanted to tease just for the sake of pettiness but he was too aroused and too desperate for contact. When four fingers were acceptably comfortable within him the gunslinger pulled them out and watched...cheeks flushed and breathing heavy as the General peeled off his leathers enough to bare himself but not enough to restrict his movement. Long, strong digits stroked the makeshift lube over the head of a twitching shaft and Vincent was reclining... leaning back even as strong palms gripped his thighs and forced them up and out. The fingers of the older man's right hand gripped the edge of aged oak on the opposite side of the desk...nails scraping against wood as the head of a swollen erection teased his entrance. Large, not so large it was ridiculous but just on the edge of deliciously imposing and he felt himself shiver inwardly. Another pause in their perpetual motion and the former Turk crankily wondered if Sephiroth needed permission for everything before nodding. A hand clutched his shoulder, the other steadying his ass and Vincent felt the powerful hip muscles under his palms move.

He could feel it in his throat.

Intransigence, and the slide of that hard, thick length was an all-encompassing sensation. It had been a long time, a _long_ time, and he had to remember to breathe through it. Swallowing and blinking up at the ceiling he recognized the battle within him; the desire to push away...to call for a pause while another part of him gave itself up to the sensation of fullness. All the while Sephiroth watched him...eyes flickering to every twitch, every exhalation of air that left his lips. When the green-eyed FIRST was sure of their anchoredness the hand on his shoulder retreated to stroke down Vincent’s chest and side, fingers gliding over a nipple...over his abdomen to find a hold on his hip. For all of his faults, the silver-haired SOLDIER didn’t move once he was fully seated; gave him time to adjust as he bent to latch onto the older man’s neck...sucking before moving upwards to tongue the shell of his ear. Eventually, however, the gunslinger’s appreciation for his companion’s politeness morphed into impatience as the ache in his groin became too much to bear.

“I’m not going to break” he muttered, running his fingers through the silver tresses that were spilling over a pale shoulder and down both of their sides. Sephiroth paused and appeared to consider his statement before moving his chin slightly to the left...licking upwards over Vincent’s jawline to claim his mouth as he braced himself.

It was slow.

Long and deep, intermingled with ragged breaths and the touch of fingertips. Despite the graduality of it, it was _good_ and Vincent felt himself shudder, bit down on a moan and busied his lips instead. And there was a wealth of skin for him to explore as he was fucked in that patient, cognizant manner; pale like moonlight, smooth like silk and muscular like iron under a thin layer of prurient softness. Hooking a leg around his companion the former Turk arched into the impetus of Sephiroth’s movement...relished the feeling of satiation as he grasped the back of the General’s neck and oscillated his hips, biting the vermillion of his lower lip all the while. It took a little bit of surrender to bend his neck; to allow his forehead to rest against the hard jut of a clavicle as the intensity of their exchange increased somewhat. A hard thrust became a drumbeat down his spine; it reverberated into his vertebrae and budded into a hot flush over his cheeks. There was the sense of searching, of his companion moving in a manner that was distinctly exploratory and the next advance hit his prostate with baneful acuity. 

The groan that left Vincent’s lips was a deep, satiated thing; it trailed excess, clinquant in a kind of glistening surplus. Sephiroth’s breath caught with it, and the hands on his waist clutched at him in a manner that was just on the side of possessive as he focused his concentration on wringing his pleasure from that inward station of delirium. Fingers grasped at one another; twining briefly before retreating; the older man’s hands found a rope of shining silver hair and tugged; the hiss that fell from bared white teeth was masochistic in its dark delight. And it wasn’t anywhere near as rough as either of them could take it...wasn’t a thing of ferocious, violent passion with little cognizance and no finesse. Instead it was grounded but firm, lucid but demanding...riding the edge of that give and take until it was like the low...thrumming vibrato in a plucked double-bass. Vincent’s cloak was a rubicund pool beneath them, occasionally tightening around his neck to a point of near-discomfort only to loosen...twining around his thighs and ruching upwards like a scarlet sea. 

The gunslinger could feel every thrust, every hot impulsion like it was spearing him from the inside out. It trickled like liquid mercury through his physicality; fire and ice arcing its way into his extremities until sweat broke out over his brow...salt dusting his tongue. Sephiroth took his mouth again and it was a deep, heady kiss that rippled throughout..became something thick and interchangeable and he was desperate for release at this point; his cock swollen and aching between them...leaking onto his stomach as he sought that culmination of his pleasure. Vincent jerked mindlessly, moaned in that supplicating manner and clutched at the nape of the General’s neck as he attempted to draw it out...to ground himself. There was no love in it; he supposed that was somewhat of an anomaly to him. Seeking physical gratification without emotionalism was strange to him...and maybe he was fooling himself even in that respect because there was a depth to this that he couldn’t fathom in his current state of mind. The younger man’s face was a mask of heady focus...drinking in his reactions like he wanted to memorize them until they were tattooed into his recollections forever.

Maybe he did.

It was, however, too late to consider the implications of it...too late to consider the possibilities. Orgasm clawed its way between them, spread its wings and rushed forth in a sea of molten fire. Vincent came and he could feel it in his bones; feel the hunch of his physicality as he released open-mouthed and unseeing...pearlescent droplets issuing forth between them as his body seized. The vocalization that fell from his lips was long and breathless...swept up in the ecstacy of completion as Sephiroth took him through it, groaned in response to the throbbing heat around his cock as the gunslinger twisted a hand in his own hair in a kind of half-hearted final attempt to anchor himself but it was fruitless. Glassy-eyed and drunk with the weight of it, the older man was tossed into oblivion...thrown into an abyss of white, mindless self-indulgence as his limbs went lax and boneless. 

Only when he’d come back down did the silver-haired man before him seek his own release. Burying that head of moonlight-colored silk in Vincent’s neck, the General thrust hard and deep...a low, gutteral noise spilling from his throat as the green-eyed FIRST wrung his own pleasure from the former Turk’s spent physicality. The spill of semen inside of him was a distant thing; barely noticeable but still there and he breathed through it...shuddered and then cursed himself for failing to think of condoms but he supposed that the Cura could work against anything that the younger man might give to him. He couldn’t bring himself to regret it, that much was certain. Satiated, somewhat fuzzy-headed, covered in sweat and flowering hickeys and the only thing running through his mind was _yes_. They remained as they were for several minutes, coming down from a mutual high as palms stroked mindlessly over each other...thoughtless gestures that conveyed a sort of apathetic and glutted gratuitousness. Somewhat dry lips nudged against his and Vincent responded to the kiss out of habituality. 

“I was going to burn the place down” was the muttered statement against his mouth. When the crimson-eyed former Turk looked unimpressed, Sephiroth continued. “I think I’ll just leave.” A pause and beryl irises clouded in what seemed to be an internal struggle. “...Thank you.” 

Trying to ignore the humanistic part within him that pined somewhat as they drew apart, Vincent accepted what he assumed was another fused materia from the General and activated it in order to clean himself. The sanitized feeling it left in its wake only strengthened the feeling of emotional loss but he ignored it in favor of pulling up his fatigues and fetching his bandanna. And he knew that he shouldn’t feel used...that he shouldn’t feel discarded because it had been a mutual thing with no expression of feelings, but it didn’t change the fact that he did. His green-eyed companion had managed to make himself the picture of immaculate inscrutability again and it was hard to believe that mere minutes ago he’d been lost in the throes of passion. Somewhat sadly, the gunslinger wondered if this was how his other partners had felt as well...like they were an eternally open door and the silver-haired SOLDIER was an eternally closed one. He did, however, get the sense that reciprocation was new to the younger man...that care was something he was unaccustomed to. Pulling his vambrace back on, Vincent flexed gold metal-plated fingers somewhat contemplatively before reaching for his boots. He didn’t know what to say to any of it; _’you’re welcome’_ seemed shallow and thoughtless, as did _’that’s good’_ and _’thank you to you as well.’_ He remained wordless because his sociability was failing him and he was tired and exhausted in more ways than one. 

When Sephiroth sheathed his sword and straightened to move towards the door he was fully dressed...leaning against the desk and watching with a kind of ache in his chest that he was at the same time trying to ignore. He didn’t want him to go...but he knew he couldn’t stay and neither could he. Vincent didn’t know _where_ he would go, but anywhere was better than here. Only when those long-fingered, deceptively adroit hands that had clutched him not so long ago touched the door handle did the General turn back. Observing him, the younger man raised a graceful silver brow before tilting his head.

“...Are you coming?” When the older man looked confused, the smile that crossed immaculate features was barely there...but it was present. “After all you’ve told me, I think you owe it to me to come along and help me with whatever mess I have to clean up.” 

Against his will, Vincent felt himself smile in return. Pushing off the desk, he told himself that the relief he felt was because he’d been given a purpose. It was a vague purpose...granted...but it was still better than nothing. He didn’t pay attention to the part of him that insisted it was irreversibly attracted to the individual before him...didn’t listen to the facet of him that whispered it wanted more than what their physicalities had to offer. So when the gunslinger drew level with the General, he merely blinked before speaking.

“Of course” he said slowly. “I can’t let you take all the credit after all.” 

They left together...and the library was as silent and still as it was before; though perhaps a bit messier. No one visited again, and the mansion was condemned soon after; fenced off and left to molder with its rotten secrets and poisonous lies. And those who remembered what it stood for lived on with a quiet kind of caution...because that is what cautious people do. The world changed and time continued to move ever-forward...ever-altered. And if Vincent stared at the stars every so often at night...a pale arm wrapped around his waist as silver hair spilled over his hip bones...it was only to acknowledge that if he hadn’t intervened things might have been worse. They were strange and silent and still...alien in unspoken ways and still finding themselves but there was still their beginning...the beginning of the beginning of the end...an unconventional intervention...

...an intervention of an unconventional nature.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:** condoms are important
> 
> Sorry it's taken so long but it was important for me to deliver this in a way that felt like I was somewhat doing justice to their characters. Thanks for reading!
> 
> **R &R**


End file.
